πΊπ¬π³π-π·π¨πΉπ¨ π°. The Aftermath Is Secondary (but It Always Comes)
πΊπ¬π³π-π·π¨πΉπ¨ π°. the aftermath is secondary (but it always comes)
All you do is scream inside, boy. Where's your goddamn courage?
"You are nothing more than a senile old man, dragging the family name through the mud." You sneer, handsome features become scarlet, because that vein in your neck pumps blood that is trying to escape and stain your hands, and you're desperate to be anything but your father.
"Our lineage? It's cursed, almost as bad as the Black family." You judge, like entitlement isn't also a curse or a language that you speak fluently, like your high horse couldn't topple you and all your little machineries.
"We are the byproduct of centuries of inbreeding, father. If you think we cannot get much worse than that, you have another thing coming." You rage, self-hatred running rampant in your veins like your hounds from hell race through the Nott Grounds at night, desperate to rip off arms of intruders.
Nobody but your mother and sister know about the screaming matches you have with your father. Acting like two savages, vocal chords echoing through corridors silenced by Perpetual Vows for thousands of years. It's not about what he's doing, it's the fact that you could do better.
You could do better, and that kills you inside. Because you just can't wait, can you? You cannot wait for your time to shine and get your grubby little hands on the family crown. Your thirst for power seeping from each pore, glinting in your green eyes and hiding in the shadows of your boyish face. You're too young to be the leader, and you're too old to be dismissed as unthreatening, so now you're left to your own resources.
And your argument is based on a fragile foundation, made of cracked stone that is being kept together by hardened gold. It's not a lie, no. But that's not entirely the truth either. You've never been too good at those anyway.
Well, you're made of mead, boy.
The drink of the gods: a result of fermented honey, and fermenting is just another word for rotting. You're rotten honey. Sweet, but acid. You get drunk on your own hubris.
If you need to tell yourself that your father is supporting an outsider, forgetting about your traditions... So, be it. Tell yourself that.
You can be a drunk, yes, not stupid. There's a thought snaking through the crevices of your brain, balancing doubt in the tiny point of a sharp knife.
Should you support? Or should you not?
It's a growing obsession that's been corrupting your fragile ego for years. Should you support the opposite side just to antagonize? Or should you join and prove yourself to be a much better follower than your own old man?
It's not about what's right, of course not. Why would it be? The thought doesn't even cross your mind, yet.
But you don't want to be made of a fool either, so you ask yourself who is even this Voldemort fellow. After all, if he were from a pureblood family, you would have heard about his folks sooner.
Every pureblood can trace their lineage, registered on family trees and parchments with Dark Magic older than most houses. You would have seen him in any of the dusty tapestries, would have seen portraits of his grandparents painted and showcased on oppulent walls of your friend's manors.
You ask yourself who are his parents, his ancestors. They are so worried about pureblood supremacy, but are they even making the right questions? Or any question at all?
Are you the fool? Are you the only one who can't see it? Are you making the right choice? You couldn't be. For that, you would have to make a choice, and your choice was not even choosing at all.
The aftermath of the festival prodded the knife into your skin, balancing a fragile position. You know you will have to make a decision soon. Avoiding can only be done to a certain point, and the aftermath can be secondary, but it always comes. It's a snake blackening your skin or a stain blackening your face in the tapestry.
Voldemort is just means to an end for the pureblood society. A leader and a scapegoat. He is merely saying what other people have thought for years, making waves and decisions for those who are too coward.
People like you. Who are greedy, and ambitious, and too comfortable in their thrones like a god licks drops of ambrosia running between their fingers.
All you do is scream inside, boy. What is your choice?
More Posts from Cvrsedmuses and Others
WHO: morcant nott & open WHERE: diagon alley, street near gringotts. WHEN: late afternoon
Morcant had a day off, which rarely happened for the unspeakable squad in the Ministry. He considered himself a very productive person, so he decided to put his financial affairs in order. After dropping by to see Alecto, he headed to Gringotts. He had several investments and assets in his name, and although goblins were very reliable to make money, they weren't very trustworthy. There, things went as expected. Some of the most important investments had major drops due to the war, so he had to rearrange a lot of things. When he left the bank, it was the late afternoon and his head felt like exploding. During all of this, his familiar, a black kneazle named Odin, walked dutifully by his side. Right after they left the bank, however, the feline stopped to smell someone. "Odin, no. Come on, stop being rude." He chastened the kneazle, who promptly ignored him and stopped right in front of the newcomer. "I'm so sorry about him. Are you in a hurry? He's being trained to detect magical imbalance, so I think he might be worried about you."
GOSSIP GIRL (2021) | 1x12 - Gossip Gone, Girl
WHO: gamon ollivander & open WHERE: three broomsticks WHEN: saturday night
Naturally, the Three Broomsticks was quite crowded on a saturday night. He had most weekends off from the shop, and he liked to spend sometimes catching up with his friends and a butterbeer. When he saw a familiar face sitting alone, he ordered an extra butterbeer and stitched his way through the crowd, heading there.
"Hey, how are you doing? I saw you alone here and thought you might want a butterbeer for company." Gamon slid the other butterbeer to the other person's direction. "Is everything okay?"
βGolden child, Lion boy; Tell me what itβs like to conquer. Fearless child, Broken boy; Tell me what itβs like to burn.β
β oh darling, even rome fell //Β p.s.
"Mrs. Parkinson, it's great to meet you. The festival looks much better now that you're here." Morcant smiled courteously to Bryony, as if they didn't grow up in the same social circles their whole lives.
There was a playful undertone underneath all the politeness, of course. It was interesting to see his childhood friend as a married woman. But, then, that was probably his fault for not having settled down yet.
"I don't believe I'm the best person to have an opinion on tapestries, since the only tapestry I truly remember is the Nott's family tree tapestry. But I do enjoy the Yuletide spirit, it's my favorite." Morcant said, settling comfortably beside her.
Who: Bryony & Open Where: Samhain Festival, Market Stalls
Bryony had thought long and hard how her re-entrance back into society post-wedding would go, and it hadn't been this damned festival. They were supposed to attend a gala last weekend for one of the many charities she helped out with, but of course, she had been sick and they couldn't attend. And now her husband goes and tells her at the last minute that he would join her later, that something had come up. She was not pleased but she was unwilling to sit at home for another weekend. So here she was, hoping he would come and find her before it was too late.
"The holiday may be over tomorrow, but the season will go on for a while. It wouldn't be particularly tacky to keep this up, would it?" Bryony mused to the person beside her, showing them the tapestry that she had been looking at.
where: ancestor's lanterns release, samhain festival, hogsmeade when: evening with: open
Morcant really hoped the departed people didn't have access to it beyond the veil. If they did, he was fucked. His heartfelt message to his grandfather, Cantakerous Nott, was along the lines of: "Dear grandfather, thank you for being an even worse paternal figure than my father. No wonder he is a raving lunatic, having you as his father. You are the one who sullies the noble and ancient name of the Nott family. I hope you rot in hell for the entire eternity. Fuck you. A big middle finger, your grandson."
He sighed in relief when the lantern was flying too high to be caugh, and hoped no one saw it. He was about to leave, when he stumbled on someone.
"Oh, pardon me. Sorry, are you okay? I hope I didn't damage your lantern." He asked politely, knowing the ceremony could be a hard time for some people.
who: morcant and dolores @apparitixns where: attic, ministry of magic.
Morcant had a soft spot for power hungry people. He'd never had anything soft in his life, so it's safe to assume that this version of softness was dangerous and calculating. The same softness he had for pythons. Respect, but he knew better. When he looked at Dolores Umbridge, Nott saw a woman who could very well run an entire show moving only her pinky finger. No sweat broken, only big brown eyes that haunted you back. As the heir of an important family like the Notts, as the son of Astrid Nott, Morcant never slouched. Posture straight like a ruler, broad shoulders and raised chin. The same charming glint in his green eyes as his mother, maintaining eye-contact and moving with easiness. He moved like the world belonged to him, confident and smart, it was innate. The friendly and honey-eyed, well, that was taught. Or better, drilled until it became innate as well. β Dolores Umbridge, as I live and breathe. How are you doing? Congratulations on the promotion, you deserve it. β He greeted, with more honesty than he would care to admit.
WHO: morcant nott & alecto carrow @ofcarrowisms WHERE: st. mungo's hospital, blishwick wing WHEN: new wing at st. mungo's
β If I had a galleon for mudblood in this room, I could buy you a new pub. β Morcant rolled his eyes, as he took a drag from the cigarette he got from Arden. A smoke break was a welcome relief from the constant smiling, which wasn't something he usually minded, but that was starting to put a strain on his facial muscles. β Disgusting. Which is rich, considering this shit bloody stinks, but certainly less than the mudbloods. Want one?
Jonah Hauer-King | Vanity Fair Awards Insider in Cannes, France | May 22, 2024 | π₯ Glambygeorgiag
-
avcrabbe liked this · 3 months ago -
necrosier liked this · 4 months ago -
silverbred liked this · 4 months ago -
cvrsedmuses reblogged this · 4 months ago
a multimuse roleplay blog penned by silver for wingardiumfm . β truth will set you free, but not until itβs finished with you. β
63 posts